


before we fall from heaven

by arisirie



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (kind of), (they're gods they've got the time), Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Because I like the idea of them having to deal with Feelings™ for the rest of their immortal lives, But in a Gods/Goddesses!AU, F/M, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, The idea behind this was 'what if Dimigard were still friends when El goes Vive la Revolution?'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27238264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arisirie/pseuds/arisirie
Summary: The Emperor of the Skies, the King of the Dead, the beginning, the end, and the years in-between.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	before we fall from heaven

**Author's Note:**

> happy dimigard week 2020!! a huge thank you to @dimigardweek on twt for bringing this to life :D
> 
> with that said, this isn't technically _for_ dimigard week, even though the overall flavour of each chapter comes from the prompts. i decided to let this out of the basement to contribute to the festivities, but updates will definitely span long after the 31st because deadlines stress me out and i write slowly
> 
> chapter titles come from various songs in Starset’s VESSELS album (i’m convinced it's just an hour long love letter between dimitri and el). this first one's from [frequency](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nrGiHm-iMrM)
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

She is not a goddess of death, but the moment she brings her axe to his neck, something within Dimitri knows his fate lies within her hands.

"El…," he whispers. On his knees, the Areadbhar loose in his grip, defeat is evident. But though ichor cakes one side of his face and grime and sweat dirties his skin, the fire in his gaze show no sign of giving up. "What have you done?"

Edelgard doesn’t answer him. Instead, she addresses her shadow, all the while never looking away. "Is it over?" she asks.

"Yes." He’s aware of someone standing next to her—her right-hand man, Hubert, a part of him supplies—but he clings onto what he hears next. "Rhea is dead."

"And the others?"

"Bound in the antechamber. Only Catherine fought back, but we’ve made sure she remains…breathing."

She sneers. "She won’t last long. A life without Rhea is a life she will not endure. Use her as an example for anyone else who tries to resist."

_'Rhea’_ —they drop her title like the men they fell to get here. Behind them, he can see it: a body, motionless, wings and scales pooled in gold. His good eye flashes indignantly. "El, why?"

Hubert spares him a single glance, as if only realizing he was there. "And him, my lady?"

Aymr still pressed to his skin, the indifference on her face says he is but a trifle annoyance. "Put him with the rest. He won’t be a problem."

"As you say, my lady."

"El," he repeats, sounding more desperate each time he says her name. He doesn’t fight it as Hubert cuffs his arms behind his back, doesn’t register that his lance clangs on the ground. He just wants her to say something. " _Please_."

But she’s silent, only turning away when Hubert starts dragging him out of the room. He watches as Edelgard draws closer to the throne, watches as she bends over to pick something up from Rhea’s corpse, watches, with breath hitched, as she places the ruler’s crown on her head.

A part of him feels fury. Betrayal, failure, frustration, guilt. But another, smaller part of him sees the crown, still tainted with the blood of a god dripping into the pale streaks in her hair, and is almost in awe of a halo.

" _El!_ "

It falls on deaf ears.

* * *

He receives no punishment, save for having to undergo a trial to prove he was uninvolved in the rebellion (and he spits the word in his head— _rebellion_ —like there was a reason to choose one side over the other).

The trials are a quiet affair, and past than the voices of the judge and executioners, no one else makes a sound. Some purse their lips in fear they will incriminate themselves as part of the resistance. Others, because they are intent to hear each divine sentence. Further still, there are those who use it as an opportunity to study the new ruler, taking in the power she commands to herself with a simple breath.

Dimitri, on the other hand, stays silent because no one will give him the answers he seeks.

"You," one of El’s generals begins, "are held accountable of opposition for attempting to stop the Emperor’s army by force. You attacked the guards stationed by the throne room despite repeated denial and stormed inside to fight Lady Edelgard. What say you in defense?"

Clenching his jaw, he stares at the ground. A defense implies he did something wrong. But he didn’t. Not in the way they think.

"Is your silence an admission of your guilt?" another general says. "Then we will prepare a fitting punishment for the weight of your defiance."

"No." El’s voice cuts the conversation sharp. "Free him. He is not guilty."

He raises his head at that. But she doesn’t meet his gaze, attention drawn to the rest of the council. "Hubert," she continues, "did he resist when you took him to the antechamber?"

The man steps forward, bowing low. "No, my lady. He cooperated better than most."

She nods. "He also took care not to cause undue harm and failed to undermine our objective—not that he had the intent to do either. If he did, considering his attributes, the conflict would not have ended as easily. I see no reason for a heavy sentence." Studying his face, she adds, "If anything, you did more harm to him than he did to you."

The council murmurs. "But surely," someone speaks up, "he must still pay for the least of his transgressions."

"Yes. And he will. I hereby declare him the new Lord of Faerghus."

His eye widens as the court erupts into whispers. Spectators look amongst themselves, muttering words under their breath. Faerghus is home to the dead and abandoned, cold and desolate beneath the earth. The current lord, Macuil of the Nabateans, is a story they use to warn young gods, of how the bitterness of the underworld will eventually strip you of all sanity and leave you to become a shell of your former self. They must think of it as a sort of exile, chaining him somewhere so far removed from the heavens.

He is almost as convinced.

If she is to strip him of the only life he’s known and send him away before he can receive an explanation, he can only assume it is for a reason. And he knows El, ever so blunt and plain-spoken, would tell him, rationalize, long-winded as they talk well into the night, long enough for the sky to once again bleed into dawn.

The thought hits him, then and there, that this is not _El_. Not exactly. She may look the same, her eyes like amethyst and hair carefully braided out of her way, but she is someone he doesn’t recognize.

Jaw setting, a deadweight settles into his gut.

"You will take the rest of the condemned when they receive their sentence," she continues. The murmurs increase. The past trials have been tame, but there are still many more to come. "I expect great things from you, Lord of the Dead."

_Don’t call me that_ , he wants to tell her. _Why are you chasing me away?_ But he swallows down the words and breathes.

"Yes," he says instead. "I would never think otherwise."

She studies him for a moment before nodding. "Then we are done here. Release his chains and bring in the next charge."

When the guards come to unshackle him and lead him to the stands, he doesn’t resist. Again, he simply stares, willing her to glance back and say something. A hint, a word—anything to make him think twice and change his mind and believe in her more than he believes in himself.

She doesn’t.

There is little else he can do.

* * *

The other trials are not as merciful as his. Those who resisted are condemned to an eternal punishment fitting for their actions: from dismemberment to stoning to constant, unescapable hellfire.

Catherine’s, in particular, is a fate he believes is worse than death. To be subjected forevermore to your greatest failure—a never-ending vision of what you couldn’t do, couldn’t stop, couldn’t _change_ —is something he is not strong enough to handle.

In comparison, his sentence is light. Even though he is being sent to Faerghus, he is given free rule over the entire domain. Power. It is far more than can be said to those unable to have even the slightest agency in their future.

Still, while a part of him hopes, idealistic about its meaning, the bigger half cannot ignore the chains that are slowly dragging him under the surface.

There are those that are grateful for the mercy of exile. Seteth, who had surrendered as long as the Emperor’s army swore not harm his daughter, is given the responsibility of helping Dimitri in his duties in the underworld. Though grim, he’d let out a sigh of relief upon receiving his judgment. It’s a role he knows well, having been the advisor of the former ruling goddess, and Dimitri is sure he doesn’t care where he goes as long as Flayn will be safe with him.

When the trials finish, there are some who come up to congratulate him on his new position. In some ways, being the Lord of Faerghus gives him equal footing to the new Emperor. He may not be in charge of the gods, but his place in the hierarchy is evident. They wouldn’t dare cross him now.

("But," the others whisper when they think he’s not listening, "to give him such an important position… What is the Emperor thinking?")

(If only he knew the answer himself.)

To his understanding, he is meant to leave Adrestia as soon as the last verdict is placed, doling out the punishments when they arrive in Faerghus. But he hesitates. Even if he’s failed—no, it’s _because_ he’s failed—so many times, he must speak to El.

"Everything is ready," Seteth says, eyeing the iron-shackled prisoners with a sense of finality. Beside him, Flayn mutters prayers under her breath. "We can leave whenever you please."

He nods absentmindedly as he tries to come up with an excuse to stay a while longer. Perhaps he could announce his leave? But El would dismiss the formalities quickly, finding them trivial. Maybe he could ask her about his official duties? No, that was Seteth’s job. She would be unamused if he wasted her time on something she isn’t even meant to do. Then what if—?

"Dimitri!"

Shaking out of his reverie, he shifts towards the voice. Then he blinks. He recognizes their faces. There’s Ingrid and Dedue, friends he’s made due to his position here in Adrestia. The others he’s not as close to, but he’s seen them often whenever he flits inside the palace library, heads buried within piles of books.

Most importantly, however…

"Well, well," Claude says, grinning widely as he draws close. "There’s the man of the hour! Took a while to get you alone, with all the swarming around you. How’s the new title going, Your Lordliness?"

The casualness is…new. Not in the way that it’s _novel_ —Claude acts the same way he always has, relaxed and easygoing without paying much mind to the status he now has—but the familiarity gives him pause from the stuffiness he’s had to endure. There have been rumours that Claude will replace Indech as the new Lord of Leicester, allowing him to get away with the lack of ceremony, but Dimitri finds himself relaxing for the first time since the trials began.

"Claude," he greets. "Is something the matter?"

"Not really. Then again, it’s not me that has anything to say to you." Glancing at Seteth, who watches the conversation with a guarded look, he says, "Mind if I borrow your right hand for a bit? I have a few things I want to ask him."

He thinks, then nods. "Very well. We’re in no rush."

"Splendid! I’ll return him just as he is. Now for the rest of these folks—"

"We can speak for ourselves." Ingrid steps forward, placing a hand on her chest as she bows in respect. "Please allow us to come with you to Faerghus, Lord Dimitri."

"…What?"

"Our reasons are our own," she continues, "but we would be grateful if we could join your escort to the underworld."

He stares at them, unsure what to say. The esteem makes him uncomfortable, but he purses his lips and tries to pretend otherwise. "…Have you told the Emperor about this arrangement?"

She shakes her head. "If you are to be our liege, however temporary it is, we wanted your approval first. Only say the word, and I will tell the Emperor of our plans."

_There_ , he thinks, a chance. "No need. If you’re sure you want to join me, I will tell her myself." He eyes Claude and Seteth, talking off to the side, and decides he has time. "Keep an eye after the—the prisoners. I will be back shortly."

Ingrid bows again. "As you say, my lord."

The discomfort sets in as he nods, stiff, and heads for the throne room. There are many things that haven’t settled in yet, and many others that will take getting used to. But none, he thinks as he pushes the heavy doors open, are decidedly as important as this.

Inside, Edelgard waits, nonchalant, perched on the stone throne as if she had been expecting him to come. And for a moment, his breath hitches. She looks _regal_. Majestic. She always has been, even when they were children, and he always knew she would be destined for great things. But here and now, with the crown on her head and the light of the heavens illuminating her back, the power is enough to blind him in awe.

Reverence. Worship. Praise.

"El." He catches himself, then clears his throat. "Edelgard."

"Dimitri." The detachment in her voice makes him tense. "What are you doing here?"

"To inform you," he says slowly, "that as the new Lord of Faerghus, I will be taking a few more into my company before departing from Adrestia."

She stares, silence stretching between them, before she dismisses Hubert and her nearby guards. "Who are you taking?" she asks.

"Gods of war and magic." He doesn’t know Linhardt and Lysithea well enough to vouch for their capabilities, nor does he understand why they want to come, but their mastery in the arts would surely be useful in the darkness of the underworld. "As well as anyone else who wishes to join."

"I see." She gives him a slight nod. "Then they will be under your jurisdiction. I have no further say in the matter. Do with them as you please."

He nods back, pauses, then takes a deep breath and lowers his voice. "…You never answered my question. From before. When—" He closes his eyes. "—when I asked you why."

She studies him coolly, the gravity in her tone making him shiver. "If I had, would it have made a difference?"

"I don’t know," he admits. "But I can’t begin to understand if you don’t explain."

"There is nothing to explain."

"Don’t say that!" The outburst causes the guards to rally, but she raises her hand to stop them. "This isn’t like you," he says, quieter. "If there’s something going on, something you can’t tell me—"

"Enough." Her eyes glint like ice, the way it always does when she cuts a conversation short. "I do not have anything else to tell you, other than what I have already said."

"That isn’t an answer."

"It is all you are getting."

"El—"

" _Dimitri_."

She looks at him. And for a moment, he almost sees _her_ —El, young and stubborn and childish and proud. The frown she holds when she admonishes him for his mistakes. The way her lips purse when she concentrates in thought. The fire in her eyes as they trace the constellations that rise in the dark and watch the chariots mark a new day and talk about whatever their future will hold (a future, he always thought, of them _together_ ).

He doesn’t see Lady Edelgard, Emperor of Adrestia, ruler of the gods. He sees El, his best friend and first love.

But she disappears as quickly as she comes.

"All I wanted," he says, "was for you to tell me, like you would have done in the past."

And this time, he’s the first to turn away and leave.


End file.
